


Losing Grip & Sinking Ships

by TheoMiller



Category: Knight & Rogue - Hilari Bell
Genre: Amnesia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 15:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2737721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheoMiller/pseuds/TheoMiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I imagine that true love comes to whoever it wants, whether they believe in it or not."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing Grip & Sinking Ships

**Author's Note:**

  * For [freckleon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleon/gifts).



> Jo wrote me a fanfic, and in the process of me squealing over that fanfic, she mentioned that she'd love to see Michael dealing with post-Jack Fisk being hostile and confused about Michael. That... sort of spun into something else. Oh, well.

“There isn’t magica in the world that can fix a head wound, Master Sevenson,” some says.

Fisk has to stop himself from bolting upright, because the first, dizzying thought is that Jack is back, and going by Sevenson, and—but then his years of training takes over, and instead of giving away that he’s awake, he remains very still.

“Just… try arnica and comfrey. I’ll pay you back somehow, I swear it, just help Fisk.”

That’s not Jack’s voice. Whoever he is, Fisk must have something he really wants. Fisk has to get away from him, until… until he can remember what the hell he has that’s of value.

“You have a sensing Gift, don’t you?” the first voice replies. And, even though it’s pitched low, Fisk can tell it’s a woman’s. He risks peering through his lashes, and he can make out a tall, thin male form – Master Sevenson – and a smaller person only barely recognizable as female – obviously the healer – before he lets his eyelids close. It’s _bright_ in the room, and he feels… different.

“I do,” Master Sevenson said, and whoever he is, he’s _good_ , he actually sounds like he’s worried about Fisk. “I will find you herbs, free of charge, and perform the necessary sacrifices. Just try everything. He _has_ to wake up.”

Fisk scours his brain to try and figure out why he’s got a Gifted nobleman at his bedside and comes up blank.

He does a mental review of what he _does_ know: it’s been about two weeks since he finally managed to duck the last of the bounty hunters on his tail. His head hurts, a dull throb radiating from the back right of his head, just below the crown. His scalp is cold, so the healer had shorn his hair to treat the wound, and the nobleman had still recognized him? Fisk must be slipping. Or, worse, it’s a particularly vengeful nobleman. But how did he hit his head? And why keep him alive?

The healer says something Fisk can’t quite catch, and then Master Sevenson replies in the affirmative, and he leaves.

Fisk waits until the healer is busy in the other room – it sounds like she’s chopping herbs, and talking to someone who might be an apprentice, or maybe someone here to keep an eye on Fisk – and then slowly pulled himself into a sitting position.

His head aches, but it’s manageable, except for the way the room spins. But he’s been in worse shape, and he’s pretty sure he’s almost entirely silent as he slips out of the bed and looks for his boots.

Those… are not the boots he had before. They’re made of different leather, with the same sort of soft sole he always buys but tooled differently, and they’re in his size and look to be about two years old. The britches hung over the edge of the bed are different too, but not _new_. They’ve even been patched up with his own careful stitches.

He tries not to let it distract him from getting dressed, but when he leans down to tug one of the boots on, the world gives a perilous lurch, and the floor tilts up to meet him.

“Master Fisk!” the healer says. “What are you doing?”

Fisk blinks up at her. “I’m… I don’t… I don’t know who that man is,” he blurts out.

The healer looks taken aback. “You don’t know – Fisk, how old are you?”

“Sixteen,” Fisk said, and the healer swears inventively. “What?”

“Retrograde amnesia,” she said. “You lost… shit, three years? Maybe four? I’m not entirely sure how old you are. But you sure aren’t sixteen. And that man out there, you’ve been travelling with him for a while, from what I’ve gathered.”

It’s Fisk’s turn to swear, and he tries to scramble up, only to feel a sudden wave of dizziness. He lands on his hands and knees, and the healer shoves a bucket in front of him just as his stomach turns. It turns to dry heaving all too soon, and he’s curled around the bucket when Master Sevenson returns.

“Fisk!” the man says.

“Master Sevenson, you—Michael, _no_ ,” snaps the healer, and Fisk is surprised to see her shove at the man.

Master Sevenson – or Michael, apparently – pauses, but he doesn’t tear his eyes away from Fisk, and Fisk’s half-sure he’s about to faint for a moment. “Why—why can’t I? Is he all right?”

“He doesn’t remember anything past being sixteen years old. It happens, sometimes, with head wounds. I’m sorry. But he has no idea who you are.”

Michael Sevenson, whoever he is, looks like he’s just been punched in the stomach. His tragic, crestfallen look is too sincere to be faked, and Fisk wants to shake him and demand to know what his older self apparently did to con a nobleman into giving a damn about him. But he’s too tired to do much more than stare at the man while the healer coaxes him into a chair and helps Fisk climb back into bed.

-

Fisk wakes up to Michael sitting at his bedside, looking exhausted but still awake. “Why’re you still here?” Fisk rasps out.

Michael doesn’t answer, just pours him a cup of water from the pitcher beside Fisk’s cot.

“I was probably gulling you,” Fisk tells him. “You know, conning. Trying to steal from you.”

“No,” says Michael. “You weren’t. I didn’t have anything for you to steal, except a lame horse and a sword.”

Fisk blinks. Then, “Your father, maybe.”

Michael laughs, like gravel and sandpaper rather than actual amusement, and then he’s holding out his left wrist and untying the leather cuff that—that looks like it was tied by Fisk, actually. Fisk flinches when he sees the overlapping circles, wonders what sort of crime this man had to commit to get those marks, wonders if it was his fault, if he’d led a nobleman’s son astray and then – and then what? Felt so bad he brought him along?

“You were seventeen,” Michael tells him. “When we met. You were in trouble, and I paid your debt, and the terms of your indebtedness were that you’d be my squire. I’m a knight errant, I travel the countryside doing good deeds where I can, and you came with me. You saved my life, twice, and to repay you, I declared your debt paid and offered you my other horse. But you stayed. We’ve been travelling together ever since, Fisk.”

This time, Fisk laughs, hard enough to hurt his head. “That is such _bullshit_. You’re insane.”

“’Tis true, every word,” says Michael.

“No, it’s not. I don’t know if you dosed me with aquilas to fill your stupid fantasy or if you’re fucking with me as a laugh or what, but I know that’s not true.”

“Then how do you explain that I know you? Why we’ve been travelling together so long?” Michael challenges.

Fisk shrugs uncomfortably. “Maybe you’re my partner,” he says.

“You wouldn’t take on a partner, not after what happened with Jack.”

That makes Fisk flinch back. “You don’t—you don’t know shit about me.”

“I know your father was a schoolteacher with a library worth over six thousand roundels. I know your mother was a seamstress, the Giftless daughter of a Giftless daughter. I know your sister married an older man she barely knew to keep your sisters off the streets. I know he kicked you out because he was a judicar and he couldn’t have a criminal brother-in-law. I know because I met your sisters, I met Max and Anna, and Judith, and Lissy, and your niece and nephew.”

“I don’t have a niece and nephew,” Fisk said.

“They were born after you left. Your niece is very willful. She’s got red hair. Her name is Becca, and her brother’s name is Thomas. Lissy has a suitor named Tristram.

“I know you, Fisk, I know you keep a knife in your boots because Jack taught you to, I know you love books and I know you can’t sing worth a damn, I know you don’t know how to fish or how to cook over a campfire, but you can toast bread perfectly. I know you can fight but you can’t swim.

“I know you’re scared of dogs but not of heights. I know you stopped burglary, not because you weren’t good at it, but because it was too stressful. I know you do something you call mathematical sharping when you need quick money.

“I know you’re a good man, even though you try to hide it, and that you’re capable of endless compassion, but that you’re frightened of caring because you’ve never had much luck with people you care about, and I know you’re the best squire I could’ve ever asked for, and an even better friend. And I know you don’t remember me. But please, please, _please_ give me a chance.”

Fisk blinks at him, and Michael’s ears start to go pink. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you. You’re usually around to keep me from getting too worked up.”

He tries to reply, he really does, but he feels like there’s a vice around his chest that’s tightening with every breath, and he can’t get a word out, and the fear is making everything worse. Fisk squeezes his eyes shut, and Michael whispers, “I’ll… go fetch Mistress Webber.”

“Stay,” Fisk says, clutching at Michael’s arm, and a moment later, hesitant fingers skim through what remains of Fisk’s hair. “I don’t know who you are,” Fisk says, or rather sobs, and shame burns through him even as he curls around Michael’s arm and chokes back tears until they break through, burning down his cheeks and soaking Michael’s shirtsleeves.

“I’ll tell you everything. Everything. Oh, Fisk…” Michael’s a warm weight beside him, arms wrapped around Fisk’s shoulders, his chin resting on Fisk’s head as Fisk clutches at him. “Don’t worry. Don’t worry.”

-

Mistress Webber is still watching Fisk with deep concern when they set out a week later – Michael is going to bring him to Ruesport, at Fisk’s request – but she doesn’t stop them, just orders Fisk to drink a lot of water and avoid alcohol.

Fisk has… reservations. Whatever version of Fisk Michael knew, he appears to be gone. Fisk’s not him. But Fisk’s also not sure _who_ he is, and he knows, the way he knows that the sky is blue, that Michael will keep him fed and clothed and safe while he figures it out.

Fisk wakes up at some point in the night to the sound of Michael crying. The man is quiet about it, but it's unmistakable. He's weeping, the miserable sort of crying where the tears keep coming and you can't stop. Grieving, Fisk realises, he's grieving. Michael is grieving his squire, lost somewhere in Fisk's head.

Fisk tries to imagine how he'd feel if he was walking with a living, breathing double of Jack and for a moment he's sure he's going to be sick. But the moment passes, and eventually Michael cries himself to sleep while Fisk stares at the faint blurs of light behind the clouds where the moons are trying to shine through.

He's never felt this helpless.  Not even when he was a child trying to provide for his sisters, not even when he realized Jack wasn't coming for him. Because he doesn't know what to do. Neither money nor fleeing will help him remember who he is.

When Fisk does finally sleep, he dreams. Gibberish, mainly, flickers of disjointed images. In one, he's digging a grave for a child's doll, with blank eyes and dark stitching, the size of an actual child. Sitting in a dark cell. A girl with red hair, smiling at Fisk, and then a girl floating in the water, too still and too pale, her red hair fanned out in the water around her face.

The next morning, Michael is too cheery by far, his smile cracking at the edges. He tells Fisk they'll take a shortcut through the marish, and even though Fisk is exhausted, he argues the point vehemently, until Michael agrees to take the extra two days they'll need to go by dry land.

Fisk isn't quite sure how he knows how to ride all of a sudden, but he figures it's something left over from Other Fisk. Muscle memory.

Michael finds an inn for them to stay at - the innkeeper recognizes them, and seems to know about Michael's tattoos already. Fisk’s so thrilled to have an actual bed to sleep in, he doesn’t even complain about the dog that crawls into his bed. Which is funny, because it wasn’t long ago that he was chased by hunting dogs. But that instant terror at the sight of dogs must have eased.

That night, Fisk dreams he’s wandering through the marish, looking for something he lost. It’s cold, and there’s snow everywhere, and he knows he’s lost, but he also knows he can’t leave until – until – he wakes up.

Michael is standing over him when he wakes, frowning at him. “Fisk?”

“I was dreaming. Did I wake you?”

“No. No, I can’t sleep. I keep thinking I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone.”

Fisk makes a sleepy noise. “Everyone leaves, Michael. That’s rule one.”

"I know," Michael says. "You, ah. You demonstrated."

Fisk doesn't feel sleepy at all, suddenly. "I left you once?"

"The night after I was tattooed. You had gotten a letter from Anna, and you didn't want to bring an unredeemed man home to your family, so you left. And I followed."

"I didn't tell you I was leaving. Did I. I just left you, on the worst night of your life."

"’Twas not the worst night of my life,” Michael says, but that’s not a denial.

Fisk snorts, because of course not. No, the day everything went wrong wasn't the worst night. The worst night was the next night. The one where you know the only friend you've ever had left you when you needed him the most.

"I did what Jack did. I did to you what Jack did to me, and you followed me? For how long? You spineless, idiotic son of a bitch. When someone breaks you, you don't go after them, you move on! Otherwise it's your fault when they break you again."

"You're not Jack," Michael says. “I know you’re not Jack because when you saw me again, you pieced me back together. Literally, after I got chased by a few mobs. Do you know what Jack did? He had me thrown over a cliff, and left you at the mercy of a madman. He talked about what he did to you, without a trace of regret. You feel guilty for leaving me, and you don’t even know me! You’re not Jack. You’re a good man.”

Fisk glares at him. “Stop that!”

“Stop what?”

“Stop acting like you care! All you care about is whether or not I turn back into Other Fisk.”

Michael looks like Fisk had slapped him across the face. And then he’s grabbing Fisk’s face, cupping it in both hands to force Fisk to look at him, his grip steely, hard enough that it would bruise if he left it like that too long. “The day before you hit your head, I would’ve given anything, _anything_ , to be able to tell you, in the aftermath of Jack, that Jack didn’t deserve you. Didn’t deserve your friendship, or your respect, or the time he got to spend with you.”

“Why?” Fisk manages.

“Because by the time I met you, you believed that Jack was justified.” And then Michael’s face turns horrified, and he lets go of Fisk immediately. “I—I shouldn’t—I’m going to go saddle up the horses.”

“It’s not even dawn!”

“I’ll brush them down first. You, uh, you get some more sleep.”

Fisk knows there’s no chance of that, so when Michael leaves, he sits in the corner of the rented bed and goes over what he knows.

He does a mental review of what he _does_ know: it’s been about three years since his last memory before the injury. His head hardly ever hurts, though he’s still not sure what happened to him. He knows Michael is an unredeemed knight errant and Other Fisk was travelling with him in the capacity of squire. He knows Michael is unwaveringly loyal to Fisk, any Fisk, and that he knows Fisk fairly well. And has met Fisk’s entire family. And Jack. He knows Other Fisk abandoned Michael once, and saved Michael’s life at least twice, and learned how to ride horses, and lost his boots. And he knows that Michael is in love with Other Fisk.

It’s obvious, to the point that Fisk wants to pat the man on the shoulder and apologise for – for Other Fisk being gone, and normal Fisk being left.

Instead, he sits awake and stares at his hands until he hears Michael approaching, and promptly pretends to just be waking back up.

-

Fisk’s nightmares don’t stop. The thing Michael said about the cliff must’ve stuck with him, because Fisk can’t so much as close his eyes without picturing it. It leaves him with a permanent sick feeling in his stomach.

When he does sleep, he finds his mind has converted Michael into the sort of storybook hero Michael clearly aspires to be. He sees Michael framed by the horizon at sea, hair caught up in the wind; fighting a monster Fisk can’t see, fighting someone in a thunderstorm, _safe_ , Fisk feels _safe_ , and there’s a strange disconnect, a sudden realization that this isn’t right, and then he’s waking up.

He wants to run. The last time things had been going well for Fisk, the con got botched and Jack left him. Every instinct, every fiber of Fisk’s being, scream at him to run.

He doesn’t. He isn’t quite sure why. But watching Michael toss and turn in his sleep, Fisk realizes that if he doesn’t leave, Michael never will. And while Other Fisk might’ve been content with this life, Fisk is no squire. And Michael’s no conman.

When they reach Ruesport, Fisk will tell Michael. No sneaking away in the night. He’s not Jack. He’s not.

Ruesport isn’t that far away, so Fisk spends the day tense and antsy, the sick feeling in his stomach going cold with dread. The storm brewing to the south isn’t helping, giving everything a sense of urgency.

Michael is giving Fisk concerned looks over his shoulder every few seconds, and it’s setting Fisk’s teeth on edge. Finally, “What?” he snaps.

“You’re fidgeting,” Michael says. “You only get this twitchy when you think something bad is going to happen.”

“I’m just nervous about seeing my sisters, okay?”

Michael sighs. “I am as well.”

“You are? Why?”

“I failed to protect you. Your sisters are likely to take a dim view of that, as they are more than permitted to do.” His expression is shuttered, and Fisk wants to lie through his teach in order to reassure him Michael he thoroughly enjoyed waking up with a blinding headache and an entirely new life. Clearly this man is getting inside Fisk’s head already – yet another reason he needs to go his own way.

“Well,” says Fisk, “I don’t think Max would let them kill you, since it’s not very respectable.”

That manages to coax a laugh out of Michael, and Fisk decides that’s a much better look on him than guilty misery. “Hey, what’s the difference between a judicar and a bandit?” Michael just stares at him, so Fisk continues, “A judicar levies a nuisance fee for his time.”

“You know, the one silver lining was that I thought you might not have developed your addiction to those stupid jokes by sixteen,” Michael says, and underneath the acerbic tone, a smile is lurking. “Apparently they’re just ubiquitous with you.”

Fisk laughs now, and the silence between them is more comfortable as they approach Ruesport with a storm growing at their backs.

The house Michael navigates them to is big, and expensive, and Fisk’s not surprised, for some reason, that his sisters are so well off these days.

 

-

This is what Fisk knows: his sisters like Michael. Other Fisk remembered the cynical old jokes that Fisk loves, and he told them to Michael. Michael is in love with Other Fisk, and Other Fisk loved Michael back. Fisk is absolutely certain that he needs to leave Michael as soon as possible. He’s also mostly certain that leaving Michael is damn near an impossibility.

He dreams about the marish again. It’s a terrifying dream, one where he’s watching Michael flee something, some great danger, something bad enough that Michael jumps into the Yare to escape. The fear is colder than any snowdrifts or river water, and Fisk aches with the need to find Michael, but he keeps wandering deeper and deeper into the marish, and it’s getting darker and colder and the icy grip of dread is dragging him under because there’s no way Michael’s survived in the cold this long, but Fisk can’t stop looking, and—

“Fisk!”

Judith is shaking him awake, her eyes roving over his face in the weak candlelight. He gasps for air, tries to sit up, and she grips him more tightly and says, “It was just a dream. You were dreaming, Fisk. You’re all right now. You’re not hurt.”

“I—I thought—Michael was missing, he was lost in the marish, and it was so _cold_.”

Her frown makes him stop. It’s not concern that’s creasing her brow, it’s the curiosity that dictated most of their childhood bonding. “Fisk… that actually happened.”

“What?” Fisk manages. “It did? When?”

“Michael got attacked by a mob on Calling Night. You’re not dreaming, Fisk. You’re remembering.”

“No. No, I’m not, how… how?”

“Your memories are coming back. What else have you dreamt?”

“I was digging up a grave. And there was a girl, a redheaded girl, and a body in the water…”

She nods. “I’ll bet those are memories too. It’s been, what, a week and a half? When did the dreams start?”

“A week,” Fisk says, and then he wants to cry, because – because Other Fisk will be back, and Fisk will be gone, won’t he? And Michael will love Other Fisk and never give Fisk another thought, and white-hot envy burns through him. “Don’t tell Michael.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because you’ll get his hopes up.”

Judith purses her lips, scanning his face for something, and she obviously finds it, because she nods and turns away.

-

Lissy practically tackles him in a hug when he sees her. “I thought you were never coming back,” she mumbles into his neck. “Are you okay? How’s your head?”

“It doesn’t even hurt,” he assures her. “How’s Tristram?”

She freezes, and Fisk realizes he has no idea who Tristram is. Or how he knew that name. “Anna said she didn’t even mention I was married. And Michael isn’t exactly a gossip.”

“It was Judith,” Fisk lies, and Lissy’s eyes go narrow.

“You’re lying!”

“Keep your voice down,” he hisses, and she thumps him on the arm, _hard_. “Ow! Lissy, stop!”

“I’ll stop hitting you if you explain how you remembered Tristram!”

“I don’t know! I didn’t remember anything, and then I started having nightmares, and apparently they really happened.” He thinks about the grave and the redheaded girl and shudders.

Lissy frowns. “And you’re worried about getting Michael’s hopes up?”

Fisk blanches, unable to stop himself, and her face tells him she’s figured him out. “If I get my memories back, I’ll stop being me, Lissy. I’ll be Other Fisk all over again.”

“What’s wrong with Other Fisk?”

“He’s not _me_!”

“Fisk,” she says, impatient, “Other Fisk isn’t going to be the same. He’s gonna remember this.”

“Yes, but Michael doesn’t—” he’s blushing, he can feel it, and Lissy’s face would be funny if he weren’t cursing everything under the sun.

“Michael doesn’t love this version of you?” she prompts. “Oh, Nonny.”

He glares at her, and it strikes him how odd this is, the little sister he left behind is now _older than him_ , at least in his mind, and she looks a little like their mother, in the way her brow folds with sympathy as she looks at him. “All right.”

She lets the subject drop, but he’s not a fool. He knows this isn’t the end of the matter. Which is why he’s eavesdropping when Lissy corners Michael in Max’s study, insisting he draw up a chair and sit with her.

"You're in love with my brother," says Lissy once they’re settled in. Her voice is warm, not accusatory, but Fisk hears Michael's sharp intake of breath.

"I... I'll leave, if you wish."

"Michael," Lissy says, "my brother is of a similar inclination. And even if he wasn't, you'd always be welcome here, damn what Maxwell says. You're Fisk's friend, and you helped save us. That makes you family. So, about your feelings towards my brother."

"'Tis complicated," Michael tells her.

Fisk snorts softly. Damn right it was complicated.

"Because he changed?"

"He's still - he's not the same as he was, but he's still him."

"The part of Fisk that you love," says Lissy. "It's still there? You're in love with both versions of him?"

Fisk holds his breath as he awaits Michael's answer.

"It... it feels like a betrayal."

"That's absurd," she says.

Michael's sigh is rueful. "Tis how I feel."

"What you're feeling, it means you are capable of loving every version of my brother. On his worst days, when he was as ruthless as he always pretends to be, you'd probably still love him. Even at your most foolhardy, sanctimonious state. There's not a version of you that wouldn't love my brother in any version of himself."

"How did you get this wise?" Michael asks.

Lissy chuckles. "Nonny used to read to me about the days of kings. There's this one king who's supposedly destined to return when we need him most. And that he'll find his queen again, too. That their love transcends time."

"True love," Michael says. Then, "Fisk would say that it's a load of crock."

"I imagine that true love comes to whoever it wants, whether they believe in it or not."

Fisk is overwhelmed by the memories that wash over him - the redheaded girl, Rosamund, her name is Rosamund, and she practically glows with the joy of a first love. She's helping Fisk alter dresses made of brightly colored fabric meant to look expensive, and she's asking him why he doesn't resent her, and his hands are stilling, and he tells her she's too pretty to be resented.

Fisk knows two things: one, there's not another Fisk anywhere in his head who wouldn't love Michael. Two, Michael loves every Fisk there is or ever could be.

The only question is how he’s supposed to convince Michael who – quite rightly, too – believes Fisk is too much of a cynic to believe in true love. And the knight will probably have hang-ups about Fisk only remembering being sixteen, even though he’s quite clearly an adult.

Lissy doesn’t look surprised when Fisk leaves the servants’ passageway in something of a daze, just turns the page of her book and says, “I think he’s in the garden.”

Michael likes being outside, Fisk knows, just like he knows which way is up. There’s no particular memory attached, just the certainty. So he’s not surprised to find that he’s not in the garden, but instead standing beyond the house looking out at the marish, the wind tousling his hair.

“Hello,” Michael says. He’s braver than Fisk, whose throat feels like he’s swallowed sand.

“Is Rosamund okay?” asks Fisk. “I remember – I remember a girl in the water, and standing by a grave, but you weren’t crying…”

Michael draws in a shaky breath. “She’s all right. The girl in the water, we buried her and told Father it was Rosamund.”

Fisk nods, and his hand trembles when he reaches out to Michael. “There isn’t a version of me, either,” he says, and that’s not even in the slightest bit comprehensible, really, he’s starting to wonder just how badly this head wound damaged him, and then he has an armful of knight errant, and Michael’s murmuring, “We’ll make new memories.”


End file.
